


A Clash of Style

by WeDontTalkAboutThisAccount



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Artist Peter Parker, Artist Steve Rogers, Bisexual Peter Parker, Clash of Art Styles, Competition, Gen, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Peter is too easily influenced by social media, based loosely on personal experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-02-21 15:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18704908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeDontTalkAboutThisAccount/pseuds/WeDontTalkAboutThisAccount
Summary: Both boys flipped their respective sketchbooks to face the other, immediately analysing the others work. They sat quietly for all of a few seconds before laughing at each other’s work. It wasn’t that they were bad, or insulting of the subject, far from it actually.They were just… different.*In which both Steve and Peter have a passion for art, but have two very different ways of presenting it. After their clash of styles is revealed, they both explore ways to further their art, and find something other than super strength to bond over.





	1. It's just... Different.

The sound of pencils scratching along paper was the only sound filling the silent common room. Moments of peace like this were hard to come by at the Avengers Compound, always interrupted by things as little as Clint screaming Bloody Mary over a paper cut to Clint actively bleeding out from a gunshot wound on the couch. 

So quiet was nice, and very much appreciated. 

Steve and Peter sat on opposite sides of the common room, intently working on their respective works. The quiet scratch of their pencils only stopping briefly as they flipped them to erase a stray line or dot before continuing with their work. Every so often, their eyes would flick up to each other and study their positions, eyeing up how they sat and worked. 

Steve studied Peter, curled up on the modern armchair, head buried in his work. Peter sat in an odd position, not sitting anywhere near correctly in the chair, but instead lounging sideways, leaning back against one armrest and placing his feet on the opposite. The position meant Peter’s legs were pulled up to his chest and he rested his sketchbook on his knees, nose so close to the paper he may have smudged his drawing. Steve couldn’t help but think there wasn’t a chance in hell a normal person would consider that position “comfortable”. Steve caught Peter’s eyes for a split second before he turned back to his work. 

Peter’s eyes lingered for a second longer, now taking his time to fully analyse how Steve sat. Steve was a lot more casual than many people would expect, especially in the compound. Steve sat on the couch with a relaxed posture, his shoulders loose as he rested one arm along the length of the back of the couch. He had one foot crossed over his lap, his right ankle resting atop his left knee, bouncing lazily as he sketched. 

Peter let his eyes focus on Steve’s slight smile, watching how the corners of his mouth tipped up slightly as he bounced his pencil between his fingers, and turned back to his own work, finishing up on the sketch, and cleared his throat. 

“Well Captain,” Peter broke the silence as he addressed Steve in a mock-professional tone, “I hope you’re prepared to share your work with the class?” Peter teased, shooting a glance up at Steve, challenging him.

“Are you?” Steve shot back, returning Peter’s challenging gaze.

“On the count of three. One, two, three!”

Both boys flipped their respective sketchbooks to face the other, immediately analysing the others work. They sat quietly for all of a few seconds before laughing at each other’s work. It wasn’t that they were bad, or insulting of the subject, far from it actually.

They were just… _different._

Steve had always prided himself on his artistic ability, even back in the forties. Actually, scrap that, _especially_ in the forties. He had often thought it was the only thing he was good at, art being his only calling, though Bucky had always fought him on this, always saying there was a hundred more things Steve had an affinity for. He had listed off a hundred things, from the mundane to the absurd, like his special talent of getting his ass handed to him every time he was left alone. Steve laughed at these moments, but knowing Bucky liked his work was half the reason he kept doing it, even long after he’d lost him. 

His drawings took the form of photos in their realism. The dark strokes of granite on the cream paper depicted Peter curled up awkwardly in the armchair, crumpled in on himself, tucked up and buried in a sketchbook. The deep monochrome shades created shadows and depth to the art, highlighting the contours and folds of Peter’s clothes. Impossible details were etched into the drawing, bringing it to a still, monochrome life. Every one of Peter’s eyelashes were laid out, brushing delicately against his brow bones, every faint freckle painted across his face was portrayed delicately in Steve’s work. His drawings were photo-realistic, and this piece was no exception.

Peter took in the portrait, let his eyes hover over the detail, and brandished his own work.

Peter’s style adopted a more cartoonish take. His adaptation of Steve, relaxed against the couch, hand loosely dancing over the book resting in his lap featured sharp lines along a caricature form, bright markers contrasting the harsh black outline of Steve’s body. Long, defined legs met a small but toned waist, coloured hastily with a muted blue marker matching the soft turquoise of Steve’s formal button up. The arm draped over couch cushions was proportionally elongated, biceps bulging before the thick black outline came in close to form a skinny elbow, once again blowing out to form Steve’s heavy forearm. Steve’s face didn’t resemble the perfectly contoured image of Peter’s portrait, but instead was flat with a soft tan shade, only contour provided by the black outline that cut in below his eyes and framed his face, chiselling out sharp jawline and deep set of his cheekbones. Steve’s eyes were large against the frame of his face, a sharp blue marker striking a stark contrast against the thick black outline of his eye. Three dark flicks below the pupil depicted the lower lashline, finalising the minimalist yet classic look of Peter’s style. 

Steve took a second to appreciate Peter’s unorthodox interpretation of him before breaking into a smile.

“Peter,” He laughed, “Peter, that doesn’t even look anything like me!” He pointed to the large eyes and snatched waist, chuckling at how cartoonish he looked.

 

“What do you mean!?” Peter fired back, his voice breaking slightly in his tamed outrage. “That’s so very clearly you! I even gave you the dorito bod!” He controlled his voice better this time, face flushed pink from the slip up before. Peter turned the pad back to him waving his hand around the illustration vaguely, eyeing his work for any previously unseen mistakes Steve was picking up on.

There were none.

“You’ve made me look like a girl with those lashes, I look like one of those Japanese ones, you know, the ones on the TV you watch!” Steve barked with laughter at his own comparison, almost doubling over at Peter’s offended look that was immediately thrown back in retaliation.

“Cap if I wanted to depict you as an anime character, I think I’d go with JoJo more than anything.” Peter snickered at the bewildered loss crawling across Steve’s face. 

“What’s “JoJo” a reference to?” 

“Oh, so close.” Peter slumped disappointedly back into the armchair and frowned at Steve, as if he were expecting something more from him. “Anyways, if you don’t like it you know you can just say, right?” Peter sighed dejectedly and snapped his book shut. He swung his legs over the side of the chair he’d now been resting uncharacteristically still on for the best part of twenty minutes ( _“A new record”_ Steve thought), but now hooked his knees over the edge of the backrest.

“Can you handle sitting like a normal person?” Steve laughed at the new position. The kid had an obsession with not being quite upright. If given the opportunity, Peter would be upside down faster than you could say “Spider-Man”, and given Peter’s abilities, those opportunities came more often than not.

“It’s okay, Cap, I can handle disappointing the greatest American hero to ever live, who also, by the way, not that it’s a big deal or anything, is also one of my personal biggest heroes.”

Steve sighed contently at Peter’s joke (at least he hoped it was a joke, and not a heartfelt statement) and allowed a smile to spread across his face once more.

“I never said I didn’t like it Peter, it’s just…” The words escaped him for a second. It’s not that Steve didn’t like the style Peter had, it was just so different to what he thought art to be. In his time out of the ice, Steve had seen so much change in the things he once thought he thought he knew. Technology, society, everything had advanced in such leaps and bounds that even what many people would consider basic had left Steve feeling bewildered and so completely lost, and the whole thing had made him feel utterly and entirely alone, more so than how he felt when he first woke up. He knew everything was different, and it would take a little longer than a while to acclimatise, and so he found his solace in art, because art couldn’t change, at least not to him. So, while everything succumbed to the futuristic chaos of the new century around him, Steve felt comforted by his pencils, his papers, he charcoals. “It’s just different.” He settled on.

Peter’s frown was minute, hardly noticeable as he flicked through his book, filled page to page, edge to edge, with scribbles, sketches and portraits all in the same style. He held the covers of the book open and at a full arm’s length, letting the pages fall freely and collect in the middle, hanging from the spine. 

“I guess you’ve had enough of different, right?” He asked quietly, not taking his eyes off the collection of pages above his head. 

“It’s not all bad.” He smiled at Peter, not that he noticed. “Society needed a wake-up call, good to see it’s taken at least a few steps in the right direction.” 

Peter dropped his gaze from the book to meet Steve’s smile. His frown deepened at this. He didn’t mean to, it just kinda happened. He figured, for a man jumping from a time when a whole lot of people didn’t have a whole lot of rights, that today’s society must seem like a haven. Peter knew that, but knew he couldn’t relate to the sentiment. 

Peter thought himself as an optimist, a glass-half-full kind of guy, always had. But he was also a realist. Peter knew how ugly society was, how hateful people are. He’d seen it up close, and not as the Friendly Neighbourhood Spider-Man, but just as Peter Parker. He’d seen it at his first Pride, he’d seen it in the flicker of surprise and worry behind his aunt and uncle’s eyes after working up the courage to tell them how he felt about boys, he’d seen it in the disgusting comments on MJ’s social media about her body, he’d seen it in the slurs and insults hurled at Ned in the streets. Peter knew they’d come a long way since the forties, but was also aware that as much as it seemed like they were two steps forward, some people were taking three steps back.

“Yeah, must seem that way.” Peter said dejectedly, eyeing the pages of the sketchbook once more. It was Steve’s turn to frown now, as he’d never seen Peter look so downtrodden over any subject in the time he’d known him. He hadn’t known him outside of his vigilante persona for long, but he had gotten used to the bubbly, childish air he always seemed to have about him. 

“What do you mean?” 

Peter met Steve’s eyes, and hesitated. He let out a sigh and rolled back off the armchair, of course sticking his landing perfectly. Peter stood up straight and rifled through the pages of his sketchbook, looking for a drawing near the front. He quickly found it, and turned to face Steve, showing him the pages. It showed two boys, the bigger with his arms wrapped loosely over the smaller boy’s shoulders, letting him lie against his chest as they cuddled. The lines weren’t as neat or bold, and the colours weren’t as vibrant, even patchy in some areas. The style seemed to be halfway between a poor attempt at realism and Peter’s developed style from today, and its place among the early pages (now frayed from age) in the book gave away how old the drawing was. Peter gently pushed the book to Steve, indicating to him to take it, which he quickly did, carefully running his hands over the drawing.

“What’s this?” 

“One of my earlier pieces. It’s not that great, but I don’t wanna do it again. That’s besides the point.”

“Is that you?” Steve questioned, noticing the striking similarity between the smaller boy and Peter. Between the long, skinny arms and legs and the mess of curls atop his pale face, Steve actually wondered why he didn’t notice it immediately. Peter nodded, confirming Steve’s theory. “And the other boy?” 

“That’s Ned, he’s my best friend. Now at least.” Steve quirked an eyebrow at Peter, prompting him to continue. Peter took the invitation and sat next to Steve, leaning against him. “Well when I first met him, I kinda had a crush on him.” Peter giggled at this, and Steve let out a chuckle too. “Anyway, that’s at least what I thought. Back in freshman year, I was still trying to figure out who I was, who I liked, and Ned just kinda showed up. I thought it was a sign, thought my good ol’ Parker luck had taken a turn for the better, y’know? But i couldn’t tell him I liked him, that was too… I don’t know, I just didn’t want to out myself when even I didn’t know what I was outing myself as.” Steve nodded in agreement, understanding of Peter’s woes.

After Peter had let slip about his bisexuality to some of the team (through a God-awful pun, no less), he and Steve had become closer. Steve wanted to know what it meant, how it worked and what people thought of it nowadays. It didn’t take a detective to figure out why Steve was so interested. 

“So I drew this. Tried to figure out if this was what I wanted. I’m actually pretty sure this was the first time I realised I could put feeling behind my works, and it felt pretty good! But I was also careless after completing it, I was on a resolution high, right? I realised “yeah! I _do_ want to be loved!” and wasn’t thinking straight, in any sense of the word.” He bent his head up to look at Steve, expecting a reaction from his dumb joke. All he got was an acknowledging chuckle. “Anyways, I left the book with my schoolwork and my aunt found it. She recognised it was me, with another boy, and asked me about it.”

“And this has what exactly to do with society?” Steve asked trying to bring his story back to the point.

“Well, Cap, I may have been fourteen, dumb and shiny, but I knew there were a hell of a lot of people who didn’t like people like me. And for a few minutes, I thought my own aunt was one of those people, my uncle too.” Peter paused, taking in a shaky breath as he recounted the story to Steve. “I fight actual, violent, criminals almost everyday, Cap, and the fear I felt as I sat down with my only family and thought they were gonna hate me is paralleled only by the time I got crushed under a building.” Peter could feel Steve tense at the mention of the Vulture incident, but felt that same tension melt away as he lifted a hand to his shoulder, reassuring him that he was fine. “What I’m saying, is that while, yes, society has come so far since the forties, it’s still not great, and definitely nowhere near perfect. The way I see it, if anyone is ever scared for just being themselves, even for a second, then society isn’t any closer to perfect than it was way back when, a hundred years ago.” 

The two sat in the comfortable silence for a few moments, and a thought struck Steve.

“So what did you do about your friend? I take it it all worked out considering you’re friends now, right?” 

“Oh! Right! Yeah, turns out I just wanted a friend, and I couldn’t tell the difference between the two feelings. Silly, right?” Peter laughed at his own stupidity, earning another hearty chuckle from Steve. “Yeah, so we worked it out, and we’re closer than ever. Turns out my good ol’ Parker luck was good for something, right?” Peter plucked the book from Steve’s hands and jumped back up to his feet, flicking to more recent works, stopping briefly at certain bigger piece that took up most of the page. There was more effort in these ones, more colour and more precise lining. “Since then, he encouraged me to do more art, so I did. Put feeling behind the pencil, right, and I realised when I do, I make better stuff.”

“Well I guess our art isn’t so different after all then.” Steve smiled.

The doors to the living area swiped open and the two looked up to see Tony in the doorway, a StarkPad tucked under his arm, motor oil smeared across his hands and cheeks.

“What’s happening here, then? You two becoming besties without me?” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Tony.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Stark.”

They both immediately answered, both in sarcastic tones. They shot each other a look before breaking identical smiles.

Tony just gave a exasperated shake of the head and sighed into an empty coffee cup.

“Whatever. What’re you guys talking about anyway?” He mused, heading over to the kitchen counter looking over the communal space and setting his empty mug down on the marble countertop. Both Steve and Peter turned back to Tony, both wearing knowing smirks and simply stated, “Art.” 

Tony looked back at them again, confusion plastered across his face. 

“Christ, if you guys are gonna start acting like those twins from that film you showed us, Pete, I’m firing you.”

“C’mon Mr. Stark!” Peter weakly protested.

“Remember, Pete, you’re a man of science, don’t let Uncle Sam pull you over to the bohemian hippie artist movement.” Tony looked up from the coffee machine he was finally done with, shooting the boys a little smile. “It doesn’t pay as much.” His tone was sickly sweet, as it always was when delivering his chirpy commentary, and departed the room just as quickly as he’d come in. 

The room once again sat in silence, but they’d stopped being awkward a long time ago. Steve was the one to break it, leaning down and picking up his sketchbook before turning to leave.

“Your style is still weird, Peter.”

Peter had an idea.

“You’ll get used to it.” 

It wasn’t a good idea.

“I mean, you should be seeing it enough.”

This was definitely not going to end well for Peter.


	2. Chapter 2

It had become tradition between Steve and Peter to share recent works when they saw each other at the compound. Whether they sat down together and flicked through a weeks collection of work or Peter just flashed Steve a doodle from his classes, the two had become closer through their work. It was nice to find a common ground with the super soldier, something they could talk about other than the pains of being “enhanced”, as the others called it. Frankly, when Peter was faced with being left alone with a man almost twice his size, and over four times his age, the topic of fast motabolisms and super strength got old and fairly boring, very quickly. Art was a new way to connect, and Peter was unspeakably grateful for that. 

But soon enough, as most things were for him, Peter found the interactions had lost the certain flare they once had. Something about sharing what he’d done just didn’t excite him the way it did before. Steve was still always happy to see what Peter had come up with since they last spoke, as the observational pieces of his teachers, classmates, even strangers on the subway were always entertaining. He found them to be funny, in a way. Peter’s style exaggerated people’s nature, especially the way they held themselves, and this made for interesting art. Steve had come to admit that he admired how Peter could capture such a nonchalant, human nature in such a unnaturalistic style, but even then, refused to believe it was a “superior” style than his own.

The fact that Steve enjoyed those moments only cemented Peter’s suspicions that the interactions losing their spark was down to his perspective. He had deduced that it wasn’t the meetings that he and Steve had that he found repetitive, because truth be told, Peter still found himself enjoying those just as much as Steve. So beyond that mild discovery, Peter had nothing else. He was stuck, caught at a mental roadblock. He was in a slump.

So that’s how he found himself in his room at the compound at one o’clock in the morning eyeing down the light switch from his position on the ceiling. Peter’s feet were stuck firmly to a thin strand of webbing which, in turn, was stuck firmly to the ceiling tiles. He’d been in that position for over an hour now, slowly spinning as he scrolled through his social media, unable to sleep. By now, Peter had refreshed his feed on Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat at least a hundred times, each time coming up with nothing. In a last ditch attempt for some variation in entertainment, Peter scrolled through his apps to find TikTok. 

_Cursed_ , he thought. But he opened it anyway. 

Peter created the official Spider-Man account after Ned had sent him a compilation of the hundreds of accounts pretending to be him, all creating terrible content in terrible costumes. The accounts weren’t harmful in anyway, but all it took was a bad decision at three in the morning after a boring patrol for Peter to create “WebSlingerNY” (all the names including “official” and “Spider-Man” were taken, much to Peter’s displeasure). Originally used to clear up any misconceptions and clear his name on the app, Peter’s account quickly grew despite his almost constant hiatus, and soon enough was verified. After taking the username that should have been his all along, “Official-Spidey” became more active. He posted snippets of his patrols to popular sounds at the time, his attempts at dance routines and challenges trending at the time, all in the suit, or at the very least, the very fashionable combo of civvies and his mask. 

His feed was also a constant mess, with the “For You” page seemingly selecting videos at random with no regard for what Peter actually might find enjoyable. He should thank it though, because now he found himself watching the same video of a girl painting the light switches in her room on repeat.

The video was only fifteen seconds long, but it documented her whole process, the video jumping from clip to clip in time with the soft music. The girl included a quick clip of her throwing up a carefree peace sign for a brief moment at the beginning, he smile wide with a giddy sense of self-expression. The acoustic guitar would play a new note, and she would move on to the next step, first unscrewing the panel from the wall and wiping it down, then jumping to her blending muted blues and purples to create a pastel sunset, complimenting the work so far with a cluster of delicately painted wispy clouds. Another brief clip of her face, now stained with some smudged lilac paint, showed her smiling again, but this time with a parent behind her, their arms crossed and an expression of mixed disappointment and humour on their face. The girl seemed wholly unbothered by this, however, just continuing to smile at the camera and throwing up a thumbs up, paintbrush still clutched in her hand. The final clip was her camera pulling away from the artwork, but with a surprise Kermit the Frog having been added to the corner, numerous multi-coloured hearts sprinkled around his head.

Peter thought it was equal parts hilarious and beautiful.

And that’s when everything seemed to fall into place. 

It struck Peter like lightning; it was the _art_ that was his issue! The two-dimensional works he was creating weren’t doing his ideas justice, and that was the problem! He needed to put his works in the real world, out in the open and not sandwiched between other drawings only he and Steve would see.

So now he was hanging from his upside down position, eyeing the switch of his own, imagining all the things he could paint to in his style, make that tiny part of the room truly his. He continued to spin slowly from the web, throwing ideas around his head for what he might paint. By the time he had come back to the switch, he was envisioning a tiny self portrait backed by a tiny New York skyline. His rotation continued, and soon his gaze drifted from the plain switch to the collection of paints sprawled out on the desk, and it struck Peter.

“Hey, J, you up?” Peter asked the empty room, despite knowing the answer.

“For you, sir, always.”

Peter lowered himself from the ceiling with precise movements, the move now a common practice in his life and smiled at the response. He knew JARVIS was just a programme, and his responses were written deep in codes and algorithms that had grown and developed through the years, but Peter still liked to hear his helpful quips and replies. Tony had always said that if he was going to get attached to a piece of machinery or artificial intelligence, just don’t make it DUM-E. The Roombas that roamed the compound were free game, though. 

“That’s great, buddy.” He smiled. Peter made his way over to the paints, separating the colours and pulling out the plastic dish he used to mix colours on the rare occasion he used acrylics. He sorted through his options of cool toned blues and purples, picked up the abused tubes of white and black, and settled on his most vibrant red, pushing the tubes into a pile on the dish. He figured he’d have to unscrew the plastic case from the wall with an actual screwdriver, and dug through the mess of his desk drawers to find one small enough to do the job. Peter plucked the case off the wall as the screw fell to his feet ( _remember where that landed, Peter_ , he reminded himself) and dropped it to the desk.

“Is there anything you wish to know, Mr. Parker?” JARVIS reminded Peter of his presence, after Peter had called for his attention for seemingly no reason. 

“Oh right. Hypothetically, if I were to, I dunno, paint a part of my room, do you think Mr. Stark would get mad?” Peter knew whatever JARVIS answered, he would ignore him, already having made up his mind.

“Well, Mr.Parker, this is your room, Sir was insistent you know this space is yours to customise, as is with the same with all the residents' rooms in the compound.” JARVIS’ cool voice filled the room, cementing Peter in his actions.

“Alrighty then, sounds like I need to get to work.”

* * *

The painting was perfect.

Peter had encapsulated his style perfectly against the lightswitch. The colour of the sky was similar to that of the girl’s from the video, the blues melting into a lilac which then blended perfectly with a deep indigo. A solid black New York skyline featured silhouettes of the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty and (of course) the Avengers’ Tower. Peter had let his mind wander during his process, and had ended up sprinkling a few wispy clouds amongst the peaks of the skyline, adding a depth to the piece. But above all of this, was Spider-Man. 

His self portrait captured his style perfectly; all long, slender limbs and defined muscle, wide eyes enhanced by the mask and a fine web thrown across the switch. It was detailed with stray tendrils firing off the main string and shaded with simple strokes of grey. Peter admired his work as he screwed the panel back into place, flicking the lights on and off a few times for good measure. 

It was only after darkness enveloped the room for a few seconds did Peter realise just how quiet the room seemed to be. The fatigue washed over him almost instantly, the deafening quiet reflecting the early hour of the morning. Peter shot a glance to the digital clock, now reading two thirty. 

“Mr. Parker,” JARVIS’ cool voice rung out quietly in the room, startling Peter, “since you’ve finished your activity, may I recommend getting some rest? I’m obliged to remind you of your return to Queens early in the morning for school.”

Great. What away to be reminded he needed to be up at five. Peter stretched out, extending his arms as far as they would go. 

“Yeah, yeah, J, was just about to turn in anyway.” Peter left the lights off and fumbled his way over to the bed, succumbing to the sudden exhaustion and accepting his early start. “I have to say though, kinda rude you let me work this late, considering you know what you know.” Peter’s exhausted ramblings rung out in the room, stumbling over his words as he tripped on numerous items of loose clothing strewn around the dark room. 

“I’m sorry Sir, but I’m still under the “You Keep Your Filthy Mouth Shut” protocol you installed last time you were here.” Jarvis coolly replied.

Oh, yeah. 

Peter finally reached his bed, flopping onto it unceremoniously and lying still atop the comforter, too tired to tuck himself under.

Just as he felt himself slipping from consciousness, a thought shot through Peter’s head like lightning. He shot up, staring at the newly painted light switch as his eyes had now adjusted to the dark (thank you, spider bite). 

“Jarvis, how many light switches are in the compound’s common area?”

“Just the kitchen and lounge, sir?” Peter hummed quietly in confirmation, “Four.”

Oh.

Perfect.

* * *

Peter’s day was undoubtedly, abysmally, _irredeemably_ , awful.

As most days were, actually.

First, the five am start had set him up for a bad day, right off the bat. Logically, yes, Peter knew it was an awful idea to stay at the Avenger’s compound this week, considering how far upstate New York was from Queens and Midtown Tech thought it was a good idea to start lessons at the ass-crack of dawn (“Eight am is not the ass-crack of dawn, Peter.” Ned had insisted. “Shut up, Ned.” Peter had replied). 

Secondly, the last thing Peter would describe his school life as was “peachy”. He had a relentless bully, gruelling classes and his best friends found no greater joy than poking fun at everything that seemed to go wrong in his life (and given his Parker Luck(™), that seemed to be just about everything.) 

Thirdly, Peter couldn’t even catch a break as Spider-Man when he finally hit the streets in the early evening. The night was slow, and while that was a saving grace most nights (it meant he was working as New York’s leading crime deterrent), on a night like this, when he had so much pent up energy and just a smidge of frustration that he needed to work out Daredevil style, the quiet just was mildly infuriating. It didn’t help that the already abysmal night was periodically interrupted by his own stomach growling at him, clearly upset with lunch going half-eaten. It wasn’t his fault a certain Flash-related incident had stopped him from finishing his sandwich, so he had ignored the grumbling for most of the night.

All in all, not a good day. 

So by the time Happy pulled up to the compound with a jittery, hungry and (understandably) angry Peter long after the sun had gone down, sleep was the last thing on Peter’s mind. He was just too worked up to even think about lying down, so instead, he jumped the stairs to the communal floor two at a time. The short run didn’t really work off any of his bottled up energy, and as Peter reached the kitchen, he immediately raided the fridge, searching for any kind of sustenance for his angry stomach. As he stuffed slices of deli cut ham into his mouth, Peter failed to notice Steve sitting at the island counter.

He was clearly in the middle of sketching something, with a few graphite pencils scattered around his open book, and a cup of decaf coffee held still in the air, caught halfway between the counter and his mouth. Steve watched in what he could only describe to be shock, as Peter dug through the fridge some more after discarding the deli meat. 

He slowly lifted his mug further up, taking quiet sips as Peter sunk further and further into the back of the fridge on the hunt for something good. Maybe he could smell something? When Peter finally retreated from the depths of the refrigerator, he held a tupperware of spaghetti like he had just located the crown jewels. They hadn’t had spaghetti in weeks. Who’s spaghetti was that? Steve choked loudly on his coffee when Peter ripped open the lid with a little more force than necessary and began eating it with his cloth covered hands.

It was the splutter that startled Peter, in his hazed state, and he whipped around to face Steve, who had somehow gone unnoticed until now. Peter took a few seconds to actually register that he was not alone in the kitchen, and for the few moments he was still, the spaghetti remained hanging from his mouth with the pasta sauce already staining his lips and chin.

Steve let a judgemental gaze drift up and down over Peter, taking in the entire simultaneously hilarious and pitiful sight of him. The image of this crazed teenager standing next to the open fridge, shovelling pasta into his mouth and hastily try to swallow in the same motion, in a spandex suit caked in what Steve could only guess to be general New York pollution and a thin hoodie was just a little too much to handle, and the choked splutter that had originally alerted spidey to his presence morphed into a full bark of laughter. 

“Is this part of your patrol, Spidey?” Steve huffed out.

Peter was almost ashamed to be caught like this, but couldn’t quite bring himself to feel embarrassed since firing up the new found friendly relationship between them, as well as throwing his shame gland out of the metaphorical window about two hours ago (when the hunger pains really started to kick in). Instead, he swallowed down too much pasta at once and laughed in return.

“Only after horrible, terrible, no good days.” 

Steve let his laughter quickly simmer to a chuckle at his response and pushed his sketchbook over the counter to Peter.

“Here, this might cheer you up.”

In the sketchbook was a greyscale image of Tony bent over an iron man suit, safety goggles long forgotten around his neck. The pencil strokes deepened around the contours of his face, making the focus depicted across Tony’s face rich, true to real life. The still image of a tool slicing into the metal created bright sparks that Steve had captured with highlighted specks and solid shadows. The spots of light illuminated Tony’s furrowed brows, and the darker shades hooded his focused eyes. The metal itself even seemed to gleam through Steve’s work, the suit reflecting the same sparks that lit Tony’s face with life.

“Woah,” Peter mutter as he analysed the drawing, although his amazement had nothing to with the work, “Mister Stark let you in his workshop?” 

Steve chuckled at this, pulling the book back before Peter could spill any sauce on it.

“Not quite.” He simply said, as if that explained anything, but before Peter could pick up on it and needle him for answers, Steve quickly pushed the attention away from himself. “So have you done anything new recently?” 

Peter’s mind flashed to the new lightswitch in his room, but was reluctant to tell Steve about it until at least the next day. So Peter did what Peter did best- 

“Yeah, but it’s not on me.” 

Since being told by almost everyone who knew about his Spidey secret that he was a terrible liar (Well Natasha had just said he was a God-awful spy, but same difference really), Peter had nailed the art of lying through omission, meaning he didn’t have to lie at all and whatever he said was a hundred percent accurate, just not wholly relevant. And if anyone knew about talking about things not relevant to the situation at hand, it was Peter. 

Steve seemed to accept this news with no suspicions, as Peter was standing in front of him in a skin tight suit with no pockets, and therefore nowhere to hide any new work. He nodded and flipped a few pages in the book to a blank page, quickly sketching out a new figure.

Taking this as the end of their conversation, Peter turned back to the counter where he had dropped the container of spaghetti, now only homing a stray few pieces of pasta and tomato chunks. He clipped the tupperware closed again before expertly tossing it into the empty sink, mumbling empty promises about washing it up. Peter let himself wander back over to the fridge in search for yet more food, now looking over the meats and vegetables in favour of something sweeter. In failing to find any sweet treats that didn’t have peoples names scrawled over in Sharpie (Peter knew better than to take another Avenger's labelled food by now), he began to search the cupboards. He immediately found a box of unopened Pop Tarts and ripped them open, only stopping his ravenous actions as Steve cleared his throat from across the kitchen.

“Look familiar?” He smiled.

Peter focused on what exactly Steve was showing him, and it only took a second to realise that Steve had only gone and drawn him, standing in the kitchen, spidey suit clad and spaghetti dripping from his mouth. For a two minute sketch, Peter had to admit it was incredibly good, but couldn’t help but let a feeling of sarcastic offence wash over him at the thought of Steve immortalising one of Peter’s embarrassingly low points.

“Not. Fair. Captain.” Peter punctuated his words with mock dramatic gestures, “You don’t have moments like that for me to immortalise!”

“I do, I just don’t manifest mine with old pasta.” He smiled jokingly, a side that not many people got to see. His teasing moments were far and few between, so it was only natural for people to not get hung up on whatever he was teasing them about.

Peter pouted, “Sure, old man. Anyway it’s long past four pm, shouldn’t you be in bed?” Despite the humiliating situation, he was glad they could have this back and forth attitude, it made for good practice in the real fights.

But Steve was just as quick, “I could say the same to you, you need rest, just so you’re not cranky when you get up tomorrow.”

“Oh, ha-ha.” Peter responded dryly. There was a beat of comfortable silence as Steve collected his things and finished off his coffee.

“But to answer your question, yes, It is my bedtime. I’m up early for a run tomorrow, you want in?” Runs with Peter were always fun, given his boundless energy and speed, it was the training sessions involving fighting that Steve found troublesome. Peter fought dirty, using his webs and “Sticky Bois” to overpower him when he got tired of being thrown around like a ragdoll.

“Nah I’m good.” He cooly replied, “I got some stuff to do tonight.”

Again, lies of omission were Peter’s strong suit.

* * *

The “stuff” Peter had done went unnoticed for a few days, surprisingly. The four switches each homed one of the original six who still lived in (or frequented) the compound. The first of the switches in the living area had Iron Man curled over the switch itself. Peter had the boot repulsors showcasing a dazzling display of stark white light and yellow fire lifting him up over the switch. Beams shot from the hand repulsors, a thick white line highlighted with wisps of blue and yellow, vaporising some off-switch threat. The suit was significantly simpler than the real life model, with the red and gold only defining the bigger plates on the suit. The heavy shoulders and chest plate were almost caricatured by Pete’s style, coming to a thin twist of the golden abdomen. The legs only had two defined sections, a thin black line separating the thighs from the knees, the helmet kept the same look, eyes a stark white, complimenting the shocking red and gold theme. Behind the suit Peter had blended out soft yellow hues with warm oranges, creating a soft, glowing sunset. The sky was decorated with wispy clouds scattered across the solid black tips of the tallest buildings that graced the New York skyline.

Steve blessed the switch next to that, running along the bottom of the switch, chasing after his iconic shield, thrown far above the actual switch. Peter had stuck firm with the exaggerated sense of style, portraying the small Steve with skinny joints and large muscles. The flat colours of Steve’s deep blue uniform presented a stark contrast to the almost solid red background the simplistic portrait lay against, the colours only separated by the thick black outline of his body. The deep red of the background was laid thick over the light switch, only interrupted with the long shadow the shield cast.

Over on the other side of the kitchen, the last two switches featured the resident super spies; Clint and Natasha. Clint’s portrait featured him atop a lone skyscraper, bow and arrow in hand, ready to fire. Clint’s physique was subject to Peter’s style too, though from the crouched position he was painted into, it was hard to tell if his legs were quite as long as the others. Peter wrote it off as his own dedication to realism. Clint was graced with a sky much like Tony, but his was shrouded in darkness, a deep indigo blending into a solid black and no clouds in sight. Instead, white paint had been splattered across the deep night sky to create an intricate display of stars.

Natasha’s switch featured her in full action, suspended from the top of the switch by two thin grey lines acting as wires extending a simple grey harness attached to her waist. She had one slender leg extended full out beneath her, the other bent and curled up slightly in an elegant manner. She held out two pistols, pointing them at some non-existent threat. Her deep red hair flew upwards, animating her still movements, throwing life into the painting as she sailed downwards on the wires. Peter took the chance to experiment with his colours on Natasha’s switch, painting her catsuit a flat black, highlighting the contours with an electric blue and outlining the silhouette with a vibrant red. The outline separated Natasha’s toned body from the same flat black background her portrait lay against, something Peter found himself liking just a little too much.

Peter didn’t feel the need to bulge out her biceps like he did for the others, as he knew from first hand experience that while, yes, Natasha was extraordinarily strong, her muscles didn’t need to bulge like a super soldier’s because her force came from technique, not brute strength. Natasha’s blows were precise, prioritising her impact on pressure points and weak spots rather than punching her threat relentlessly like a caveman. Peter decided to reflect this in the painting, portraying her with toned arms and legs and thinner shoulders. She was a spy, not a soldier.

A few days had passed since the night Peter had thrown them up, and considering Tony hadn't yelled at him about it, or taken a bottle of acetone to the portraits, Peter could only assume he liked them. The smirk Peter noticed spreading across Tony’s face about a week later as he flicked the switch to the common area confirmed his suspicions.

The was common among the four Avengers’, as no one really brought the new decor to question, but the grins and smiles that graced their features whenever they walked past the switches was all the validation Peter needed.

**Author's Note:**

> The only story related notes I have is that Vision is not a part of this canon simply because I do not like him.  
> Also this canon follows Civil War up until just before the end of the airport fight. I don't know what the specifics would be, but all that matters is that Peter and Steve have had their fight, Bucky is in Wakanda, and the tension between the team is all but gone because I don't like conflict.
> 
> Peter's art style is something similar to my own, but I'm a better writer than an artist, so be sure to check out the artists that have inspired me! (I can't link because apparently that's hard, but they're all on Instagram and Tumblr)  
> -RhymeWithRachel  
> -Rorokonaa  
> -RachelJPierce  
> -JohannaTheMad
> 
> Leave any feedback and thoughts in the comments? I'd love to hear what you guys have to say!


End file.
